


Sweet Talker

by wrothmothking



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 07:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17545241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: He's been tortured, mind-controlled, set on fire, and shot at by every gun in Montana. Then, he falls.





	Sweet Talker

His head hurts. The sun is low in the sky. And there's a cougar resting their great paws on his torso, mismatched eyes bearing down on him with daunting familiarity. 'Daunting', because the one time he's seen a cougar was at the zoo, and he was pretty damn sure she hadn't been down to cuddle.

Plus: teeth. And claws. And the fact his throat was well within lunging distance.

Also within lunging distance: a recurve bow, painted ruby red, and a quiver with a dozen arrows. Instinct told him to grab one, stab the cat in the eye, and bolt while the pain distracted them. Getting away still wouldn't be easy, not with nightfall coming and his head throbbing in time with his heart, but it would be a ways above implausible.

Still, Rook hesitates. They look so trusting, so impossibly loving, snuggling into his chest with a hearty purr. Not a care in the world. Not an iota of aggression. Cautious, Rook is slow to raise his hand--and nearly jumps out of his skin when they press into it, eyes sliding shut in pure contentment. It is as their head turns his eyes alight on their collar. Peaches.

Not domesticated, but not wild. Comparably.

Something's moving through the thicket. Feeling bold, Rook gently shifts himself out from under Peaches and reaches for the bow. The fact they--she, he sees now--aren't concerned doesn't comfort him. However well they treat her, he doesn't relish meeting her owners; he's doubtful they'll care to share the hows and whys of his being here, should they know.

Turns out, it's not a person at all.

It's a dog, black and white, with a rope around his neck and a rifle in his mouth. Showing no fear of Peaches, he plops down right in front of Rook, peering up at him with a mix of devotion and expectation.

This is a lot.

Discounting the fact he is stranded, in a forest, with what is either a head injury or the world's worst hangover...It is still a lot. What the fuck. Were this a movie, he'd think it a prank or the opening to a psychological horror where the two animals turned out to represent contrasting halves of his mind.

Or he has amnesia. That works, too. These clothes aren't from his closet, this terrain isn't native to his home state, and these two are clearly his. Whatever had possessed him to take a freakin' mountain lion out of the woods, he hopes he finds out sooner rather than later because, for the third time since it bears repeating: this is a lot.

"Good boy?" Rook takes the rifle and slings it around his shoulder along with the quiver, keeping the bow in hand.

There's a cliff at his back, short, but jutting out of the earth too sharply for either of his friends to make it up. Maybe he fell from up there.

Much as he doesn't like it, the situation is manageable, if he can just keep breathing. He's woken up to worse circumstances. Yadda yadda yadda, one step at a time, everything will turn out fine. Or it won't, and he'll be too dead to worry about it.

'Cause that is definitely gunfire.

Taking stock, he finds a medkit, a broken radio, throwing knives, and thirty different explosives.

"Okay. Either this is amnesia, or a Freaky Friday situation," he whispers. The latter sounds better, until he considers how it's actually ten times crazier and, oh yeah, he doesn't have a twin. That he's aware of.

Peaches rubs against his thigh. It's a sweet enough gesture he forgets his earlier fear, scratching under her collar. Dog's whine gets him a hand, too, and Rook feels some of his tension bleed away. He isn't alone. He has to remember that.

"So. Here's the plan: find shelter, then find help in the morning. Unless you two have a better idea?"

Nothing.

Alright then.

He leads them away from where the gunfire'd come from, keeping the pace slow in case any surprises decide to explode out of the underbrush. It's not long before they come across a cabin, long-abandoned by the looks of it. The windows are boarded up, but the door squeals open easily once he's picked its lock.

The inside is bear. Chair in one corner, coffee table nearby. There's a thick layer of dust on every surface; Rook's thankful Peaches and Dog don't seem to have allergies. He props the door open with the table so they're not trapped in.

The rotted floorboards aren't comfortable, but they provide a security the outdoors can't. Sleep is slow to come. 

* * *

The sound of an engine wakes him. He quiets Dog's growls, petting him to comfort, as he investigates. It's an older pick-up truck, white, with a cross-like symbol painted on in black. The same symbol is tattooed onto the face of one of the two men getting out. Rook ducks back before they can see him.

They're armed, potentially the source of yesterday's disturbance. But he needs help, so he double-checks where his knives are and goes to greet his guests, leaving bow and gun on the chair and Peaches and Dog behind the door, out of sight. He doesn't want to give them any excuse.

Trench--for he's in a trench coat--notices he's coming first and readies his weapon, his stare coldly accusing Rook of some unknown crime. He's liable to shoot, Rook's raised hands and peaceful posture notwithstanding, but Tattoo intervenes.

Despite the threat shining in Tattoo's toothy smile, Rook relaxes, for alongside it is something warm and welcoming, something perhaps too happy about Rook's approach.

"Sorry about him," he says. "You can't fault a man for being jumpy in times like these."

"Guess not," Rook agrees, though he of course has no idea what the times are like. It's beside the point; he's in no place to argue, but shooting someone after identifying them never counts as 'being jumpy'.

"You look lost, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't. I am. Mind pointing me towards the nearest hospital?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Just took a fall. I'm sure I'm fine, but you can never be too careful with head injuries."

"I suppose not. Don't know 'bout no hospital, but there's a healer in the area, name's John. We can give you a ride to his ranch, if you like."

"A healer?"

"He'll fix you up, right as rain, and he won't charge you an arm and a leg to do it."

Rook doesn't trust this, but last he knew he didn't have health insurance.

"Is it alright if I bring my gear and my friends?"

"Oh, you have friends with you?"

"A cougar and a dog."

"Yes, that's fine."

As Rook leaves, he hears Tattoo call ahead to this 'John' fellow. Nothing he makes out sounds less than innocuous, but there's a great deal he doesn't catch.

It's on his way back, Peaches plastered to his side while Dog runs tight loops around the parking lot, that he has a thought; two, rather. One, fairly innocent: they hadn't exchanged names. Two: they hadn't expressed the least surprise to learn he was traveling with a cougar, of all things.

Unless they knew him from before.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your names."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry! I completely forgot to give them! I'm David, and that there is Mitch. Mitch can't talk."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Rook," he says, signing along as he does. Mitch might not be deaf--either way he seems to be following the conversation--but Rook thinks it important he know he can contribute.

And he does: 'We know of you. The legendary hunter accompanied by Miss Mabel's old mountain lion and the Hope County mascot.'

Hope County. He doesn't recognize it. "Mascot?"

"Boomer. Haven't you seen the t-shirts and posters everywhere?"

At least he has a name for Dog now. And a clue as to who he is, to them and otherwise.

"Now that we're acquainted..."

"You gonna hop in the back with them or ride up front?"

'It's cold.'

"Strongly disagree, but thanks for the warning." With the three of them, it's pretty cozy.

Planes and helicopters aplenty fly over. Whatever the reason for the heavy air traffic, Rook's concerned. The roads are comparably bear; Rook spots a semi or a van or another truck every once in a while, some painted white with the same symbol as the vehicle he's in. Maybe they're part of some kind of militia.

The ranch is littered with guards. They watch him closely. A woman on the balcony with a rocket launcher oh-so-casually perched on her shoulder subtly adjusts every time he moves, keeping Rook in her targeting reticle. It should be daunting. Instead, it fills him with a sort of twisted pride. He's hurt these people enough to earn their fear, but with it came the regard that allows him to stand in their compound with a bow in hand and allies circling the courtyard, restless and a mere gesture from Rook away from tearing into the nearest throat.

He's the enemy.

The only important question left is why.

"Deputy!" John crows. There's no mistaking him for anyone else; the open awe and dedication of his men, the elegant outfit, the languid stroll of a caged--if pampered--predator. To otherwise phrase it: a nicely-dressed bundle of anger, arrogance, and fear with a smattering of learned sadistic joy. A leader, but not the top dog.

Rook's unnerved by his transparency. For John's wounds to inspire faith implies a deeper element, something Rook's missing. (To be fair, he hasn't had much opportunity to look.)

And 'deputy'. Another piece to the puzzle, if he only knew where to put it. It's not a role he easily envisions himself in, but he supposes a lot can change in a man.

He goes easily into the hug John pulls him into. He smells nice.

"You've made me the happiest man at Eden coming here today."

He doesn't let go.

This is getting weird.

Rook steps back. "I don't remember you."

John's face falls. "No matter. To tell the truth, there was some...unpleasantness, in our past."

Rook eyes Rocket Launcher Lady. "Yeah, I'll bet."

"I hope we'll be able to avoid such things, going forward."

A noncommittal hum is Rook's only response. Judging by John's drawn brows, he is both annoyed and unsurprised by it.

A click of the tongue and John's ushering him inside. "I shouldn't prattle on any longer, you must be hungry."

The interior, while certainly a step-up over where he'd spent the night, is understated in its decoration. Natural colors, typical furnishings, and a complete lack of personal items save for one picture of him and another man standing behind a seated third, a woman sitting beside his chair. It could be a family portrait, or the album cover for his rock band.

A polished oak table's centered in the hollow between living room and kitchen. Two plates of fish and potatoes await atop it. Rather than being across from each other, they're neighbors. John of course sits at the head of the table, the dining room's massive windows framing his back, the sun rays coming through creating highlights in his hair, the shadows forming on his face hiding his wrinkles. Taking the seat next to him, Rook can feel his heat. Guy's like a furnace.

Feeling awkward, he shovels a bit of food into his mouth. "It's good," he says, to John's glare. He's looking at Rook like he's bit his hamster's head off.

"In this house," John begins, slow and dangerous, "we say grace."  
"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

It doesn't seem enough. Oh, it was a small thing, surely, but John's rage, once triggered, is not. Rook doesn't need his memories of their past confrontations to know that much.

And yet, John smiles, nice and friendly, as if a man of his kind could ever be so easily mollified.

"A sinner sins. I should expect nothing else."

"A sinner?" Rook grimaces. Maybe he should'nt've come.

"Worry not," John's hand grabs Rook's on the table, holds it, "for while your soul has been darkened by wrath, it is still a beautiful thing, well worth saving. I didn't see it at first, I'll admit, and for that I apologize, but Joseph opened my eyes to its light and I will not allow it to be lost again from my sight."

"You speak of sin, but I see wrath in you, too. And pride. And," Rook turns his hand so it grips John's back, "lust."

"No one can be truly free of sin. Not even the Father. That is why we have confession, that is why we practice forgiveness; no one is perfect, but so long as you try and keep God in your heart, you can still be saved."

Rook snorts. "Those aren't your words. What do you really think, John?"

"After I first tried to save you, you blew up my mine. After the second, you blew up my sign. You have slaughtered over a hundred of my men. But here you are, at my table. You have come to me for help, and I have opened my door for you, again, knowing the violence in your heart. Knowing your amnesia could be a ruse. I have let you keep your weapons, and your beasts. What is that, if not forgiveness? What is that, if not _love_?"

"Madness."

John laughs. Despite the situation, Rook can't help but find sweetness in the sound.

"How did I get here?"

"You're a deputy. You tried to take my brother."

"And what did your brother do to warrant that?"

"God's will."

Rook holds his gaze, waits for elaboration.

"The Collapse is coming. He's-- _we're_ saving people."

"And I take it this involved forcing your beliefs onto others? With cruelty?"

"It's better than dying."

Rook would have to agree, except-

"You don't believe."

"I don't."

"I didn't, either, at first. And now I am one of his heralds, the one who welcomes our new members and cleanses them of sin."

"How do you do that, exactly? Cleanse someone of sin? Through scarification?" He gestures to the scar on John's chest, peeking out through his shirt collar.

"For starters. If you would allow me, I could take you through the process and you could stand with me, today, and tomorrow, in Eden."

"And if that doesn't sound like a good time to me, you're not going to force it?"

"I would be...disappointed, but no. You and your companions may stay here as long as you like, and so long as you leave us unharmed we will pay you the same courtesy."

Rook shoves his plate away. It's probably long gone cold anyhow. "You're that sure I'll turn? What, movie night with your bodyguards, poker with your assassins and I'll bear my chest to you and ask you to cut me up?"

"I don't have assassins."

"Whatever. I don't fucking remember."

John makes a beckoning gesture. Out of nowhere, a henchman appears to take their plates away. "Tell the cook to make a new batch."

'I'm not hungry,' Rook wants to say, just to be difficult, but he's not about to make himself suffer just to get one up over John. Also, it would be immature.

They're still holding hands.

"Were we only enemies, before?" he asks, soon as they're alone.

"Yes."

Rook averts his eyes, blushing.

"You seem disappointed, but you thought me and my family to be monsters. You were trying to destroy everything we have built, at the whims of a lying, diseased so-called resistance that would sooner see us all dead than allow us 'Peggies' to survive. I wanted you with me. You wouldn't have it." He lets go. Rook's hand feels cold without John's.

Rook swallows. "Sweet talker."

"Well, I _was_ a lawyer." 

He clears his throat, straightens in his chair. "So, you make it sound like I was dragged into this."

"You were a junior deputy, new to the area. I'd wager you hadn't heard of us until you came here."

"And..." He has so many questions. They just won't form on his tongue, and he's getting a killer headache. "David and Mitch called you a healer."

"I am: of the soul."

"Not really what I was looking for, and I think they knew that."

"If it's any consolation, we do have a medical doctor. I'll call her in after dinner, if you like?"

"Yeah, I like."

The food comes. John says grace, then they dig in. 


End file.
